


Of Naps and of Learning Curves

by ravynfyre



Series: Max's Special Gift [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:09:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravynfyre/pseuds/ravynfyre
Summary: They really should have known. Once? That's happenstance. Twice? Coincidence. More than that? Well... that's just Max.





	Of Naps and of Learning Curves

Perhaps, in retrospect, they really all should have expected it.

The very first time he had returned, it had taken a while, a few score days, and then some. It hadn't exactly been a wordburger, picturebook reunion, either, what with the Sisters - Wives no longer - still just a little resentful that Max had snuck off before the lift had even gotten that far off the ground without so much as a pat on the back or a "thanks for the memories." Really, they should have expected better, because "wasteland feral" is what Max _is_ , and it isn't as if you could take the "wasteland" _or_ the "feral" out of Max and have him still be "Max". Not really. Might be that one could tone down a bit of one or the other or maybe even both, but even then, it isn't as if one could reasonably expect to tame the boy. 

He's Max. He's not the type to _be_ tame. If he was, well, the whole business on the Fury Road probably would have turned out quite a bit more grim in the end than it did.

But he _did_ come back, dragging a gawdawful heap of scrap behind a reliable, if ancient, tow-truck that no one rightly knows where he managed to dig it up at, right into the righteous indignation of Toast's "furious vexation". Bit of a pother that to-do had been, so it's said, what with her boys all chest-thumping and showing off for her, and Max somewhat surprised about his lack of welcome, apparently. 

But that's not the story you're here for. No, you're here for the other one.

Suffice it to say that all the chest-thumping and Toast's yelling had brought Furiosa down pretty quick, and Max and his pile of torn up scrap had been installed in the shops in a far back, quiet corner in short order. After a few days, and whatever explanations it had taken, all by-gones between the Sisters and Max must have become by-gones, because they were all suddenly pleased as punch to have him around. Even Toast. Hell, even the Dag, and she'd been more cross with him than Toast had! 

But next thing you know, there they are, hunting him up from that corner of the shop of his, bringing him meals and making sure he's bathing and sleeping and getting sunlight and such. Dag had apparently started calling him her "special potted plant", which he never put up much fuss about, submitting meekly enough when she would march down there and drag him by the arm up to the gardens up top. Well, usually. There would be some times, though, that she wouldn't stir him out of his lair down there.

See, Max had himself a few spots around the Citadel that had very quickly become _his_. Of course Furiosa assigned him a room. Not quite sure if he spent more than a single night there to be honest. Oh, he tried, but something about the way the stone had echoed had apparently rubbed him all wrong, and he'd ended up curled up in Furiosa's doorway that night. The next night, she'd just invited him in to her room and that had been that. Then there's that shop bay where what had been left of that car of his had been put for him to work on. That's his of course. Plenty enough space for him to scatter all his tools out and a workbench to crack open the pieces of that V8 he's pulled apart to piece back together, with a bedroll in the corner for him to collapse onto when he works himself tired enough to be _able_ to finally just collapse in a pile and sleep until either someone comes looking for him, or the ghosts chase him awake again.

And _that's_ why, in retrospect, they all should have expected it, you see.

Because the first time that the Dag had come down to the shop to roust Max out of the bowels of his resurrection project, only to come away empty handed, it hadn't been because he hadn't been there, but because he had been, and he hadn't been _alone_. No, you see, as she'd strolled on in to his secluded back corner, all intent on dragging him up to the open air of the gardens to make him take a break in the shade and get some air, she'd almost had herself a little attack of the vapors standing there, when she'd come around the corner of the wreckage of that Interceptor and seen the Citadel's pet feral wastelander, sprawled on his pile of blankets and the cushions that had been migrating down there...

With three... four... five? Yes, five pups, all cuddled up with him, napping in a tangled pile of limbs, snores, and drool. 

Dag had returned ten minutes later, creeping in with Furiosa, who had flatly refused to believe her, only to find a sixth pup added to the pile. That wouldn't be the last time they would find Max in the middle of a pile of pups in his work bay, although no pups ever dared just come nap there _without_ Max. The record to this date is ten pups. That one had spooked him well and good, though, He buggered off into the wastes for a good fifty, sixty days after that pile-up.

Sometimes they don't seem to bother him much, though. Like the time the Dag dragged him up to the garden and set him down in the shade with a bag full of cotton to pick seeds out of until he got bored enough to nap. When she'd come to check on him later, she'd found him stretched out with a pup curled up against his shoulder and Max blinking muzzily up at her for a moment. He'd looked down at the pup, looked at her, and then shrugged his unencumbered shoulder before unrepentantly closing his eyes again and nodding off. Didn't leave the Citadel that time for another few weeks, in fact!

The best, though, must have been that council meeting with all the Milking Mothers. Goodness known how Furiosa had managed to wrestle that boy into a bath and clean clothes, for once, especially that soon off a scouting run out of the wastes, but he was, and a good thing, too. Imagine it, if you will, Max, not dusty for once, minus that jacket of his, even, dragged into a council meeting, one imagines, by his _thumbs_ , to give his report, and why Furiosa didn't just dismiss him right after, goodness only knows. But there he is, tucked into a corner behind her, waiting for who knows what as the Milk Mothers and the rest of the council are arguing over whatever the dispute had been at the time, and, of course, the mothers had brought their toddlers and suckling babes. The babes are of no consequence, because they stay swaddled up with their mothers, but toddlers in a meeting will do what toddlers will do - get bored, and wander. And Max... well, Max in a meeting where he has no further input will do what Max in a meeting where he has no further input will do when he hasn't been officially dismissed, apparently - he'll fall asleep in the corner behind Furiosa.

Capable has such a lovely sketch of Max with all the Milk Mother's toddlers cuddled up with him from that meeting. It was, from all accounts, the calmest, quietest, most best behaved that those children have ever been in one of those council meetings. And now, Max apparently has a standing invitation to nap anywhere in the Milk Mother's area that he wants to. Not that's he's ever taken them up on it yet, but Capable has asked that if anyone ever hears of him heading in that direction, she would very much like a heads up, so that she can get her charcoals and paper ready.

But, really, this whole situation with the Dag and with Sprout having gone missing... well, everyone really should have just expected it, honestly.

You can't seriously think that you can keep a toddler occupied in a garden forever, can you? Especially _that_ precocious little gem. Dag's little girl is such a smart little creature, not that anyone would expect any different, with so many "mothers", _and_ "Uncle Max" doting on her constantly. 

Oh, of course not. Max doesn't dote. And he certainly doesn't bring her shiny baubles from his trips out in the wastes. Or save her favorites from his meals and "just happen" to have those snacks with him when she's around, even though his hands still shake sometimes when he looks at her, and even though he still can't say her name without his voice getting a little thick most of the time. And he's certainly never gone to the effort of stitching her a little stuffed toy from the scraps of an old bit of clothing that was about to be discarded. Not Max. None of that happens to Capable's little one, either. That's preposterous.

But, really, with as clever as little Sprout is, and as often as she's been to Furiosa's room, it really is a wonder that when she'd gone missing that afternoon after hearing the lookouts calling down that Max's car was pulling through the gates, why the _first_ place everyone thought to look hadn't been Furiosa's room, instead of spending four hours frantically tearing the Citadel apart from top to bottom. Even _Sprout_ knows that's where Max goes first when he gets back. Tame? No, but there's a certain predictability to the boy, there is, that even Sprout understands.

So, the moral of the story, children, is that the next time the wee ones go missing, _before_ you poke the ants' nest and get the entire war party baying for blood, just check Furiosa's room, first, if Max has just gotten back. You'll probably find whoever is missing, there, curled up with him on her bed, taking a nap, unless they tried to sneak in _before_ he fell asleep, in which case, the wee one will have already been dutifully trundled back to whichever mother is missing their little one.

Now, if only they could figure out how little Sprout had managed to get through the locked door...


End file.
